


Ice Before Winter

by StarksInTheNorth



Series: Ice Before Winter [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anti Daenerys, Arranged Marriage, Daenerys Critical, Don't Like Don't Read, F/M, One-Sided Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Politics, Post-War for the Dawn, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, semi-book canon compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-12 19:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21481681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarksInTheNorth/pseuds/StarksInTheNorth
Summary: They should both be dead, but they aren’t.They should be siblings, but they aren’t either.They should be Starks, but the Queen wants them to be Targaryens.They should’ve stayed in Winterfell forever, with Bran and Arya, but they can’t avoid their duty anymore.They should be home, but they are prince and princess of a Realm they never wanted to see again.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Queen Daenerys Targaryen summons Jon Targaryen and Sansa Stark. Jon, to take his place as the barren queen's heir, and Sansa, to bear the next generation of their line. Thrust into a world of political intrigue and backstabbing courtiers, Sansa and Jon must rely on one another to protect their family and make the ultimate decision: are they wolves or are they dragons?I've been asked by a few people to mark this anti-Dany. I don't necessarily agree and think it's more critical than anti, but I've marked it that way to be safe.
Relationships: Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Ice Before Winter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548379
Comments: 90
Kudos: 153





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this in 2016 before deleting my tumblr/AO3 in 2017. This is an edited version of the original, and an expanded version of the story told in [The Blood of the North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907521?show_comments=true#comments).
> 
> Please note: this will not be a particularly Dany-positive story but I still like her as a character and don't appreciate hardcore Dany bashing in the comments.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A marriage is proposed.

**Dany**

The queen speaks with a voice steady as Drogon's flight, but as powerful as his fire. "Leave me."

Daenerys towers above her advisors despite her short stature, a magnificent and terrifying queen, fingers splayed out on the table between her and them. Her silvery hair hangs to her waist in thick, complicated braids studded with bells for every victory she has claimed: against the Masters and the Volantenes, against Cersei Lannister, the _khals_ she subdued to create her great _khalasar_, and even the Long Night. But she could not destroy one magi's curse upon her womb.

The small council stands in unison. They recognize her tone, the same one she uses to raze cities and burn Masters. Grandmaester Marwyn heads first for the door, taking the lead as the one who had born the news that put Queen Daenerys in such a state. Lord Varys and Lady Margaery Tyrell and all the others file out as quiet and slow as they dare.

Missandei squeezes Dany's hand with a gentle smile, consoling to her as a friend and not a counselor. Their eyes meet, and Dany knows that the translator will be waiting for her outside. She nods in affirmation of her thanks before Missandei turns to joining the leaving crowd.

"Not you, Lord Hand."

Tyrion Lannister stops his shuffle and pivots to face the queen. He does not follow the other members of her council, but also does not move from his place in the center of the room, either. He stares at her, awaiting her next careful pronouncement. Any motion might spark her ire and she knows he likes his head where it is.

She closes her eyes with all the other backs turned to her, releasing a slow, quiet breath. She would not kill Tyrion, her closest Westerosi companion, but she might speak out of turn if she does not think over her words and decisions. Tyrion reels her in from her worst impulses and advises her towards justice and fairness. Together, they are reshaping the Seven Kingdoms: laying brick across the kingsroad, gold road, and rose road, building glass gardens in every town to prepare for the next long winter, funding orphanages and poorhouses, and so much more. She needs Tyrion in his understanding, and he needs Dany in her right mind.

Once Missandei has evacuated the chamber, Tyrion speaks. "Yes, my queen?"

"You will speak to the High Septon immediately upon leaving me." She commands, the full plan formulating in her mind. This plan came to her late the night before, after Marwyn confirmed her long-held suspicions. Her mind reeled through the list of those who would are fit to fulfill the role she expected for herself, and only one woman stands in the crowd. The plan's steps are simple, even as the process is not. She will have what she needs by the year's end. "You will explain that your wedding to Sansa Stark was a marriage in name only, wholly unconsummated, and will ask him to annul the union. If he questions this, tell him it is my express desire that he fulfill your request."

"Why, Your Grace?" Tyrion steps back towards the table. "And what if my wife would like to continue our state of matrimony?"

"If she wished that, Lady Stark would sign her correspondence as Lady Lannister, and she would be here or at Casterly Rock, not in the North." Daenerys scoffs, a smirk playing on her lips. Tyrion complains often of his awkward state as a not-quite-married man, and now he questions ending that uncomfortableness. He is shrewd, and she can see the thoughts roiling in his mind as he realizes why this is her first request after the grandmaester's pronouncement. "I will arrange for a suitable bride to be your new Lady Lannister, fear not."

"If I may be so bold, it is quite strange that your first consideration upon this news is to worry over my marital state." Tyrion sighs and steps back to his specially designed chair. Small steps lead up to the top so that the Hand need not make an undignified lift into his place at her table.

Daenerys looks down the long table at him with her darkened purple eyes. "It is not your status that I ponder upon, but that of Lady Stark. She will be free to become a Princess of the Realm without her ties to your House."

Tyrion's eyes widened, but he looks mostly unsurprised. He pauses a moment, as if waiting for her to continue. Finally, he gives in to her stony silence. "You mean to marry her to Jon Snow."

_"Jacaerys_ _Targaryen_." She emphasizes, using the Valyrian name Lyanna Stark gave to her son. "To continue my line, to end the curse upon this house, I must. Catelyn Tully proved to be quite fertile, and I am told her daughter is identical to her likeness, but perhaps even more beautiful. Lady Sansa has familial ties to the Riverlands, the North, and the Eyrie, and great friendship with the Stormlands and the Reach. She is perhaps the most influential woman in my kingdoms other than myself. If I tie her to the crown, I tie them all to my crown." Daenerys explains, her eyes fixed in the dark, hollow gaze that has captured them often since the Battle beyond the Wall.

She long dreamed of the day Jacaerys, tall and dark and brooding but entirely Targaryen, would finally come to King's Landing to wed her. Her handsome nephew is wise and experienced, a warrior and leader whose people follow and fight for with pure devotion. She offered him the throne when they first met, but he insisted on going North to help rebuild his mother's family's home. Jacaerys would have been a wonderful King to share the burden of the crown.

But she can not give him the heirs necessary for a dynasty. 

Several maesters have all confirmed that Daenerys is barren and will be until the end of her days. Miri Maz Duur has left her brand upon Dany. That tragedy has forever seeped into her skin and soul, but it does not mean that House Targaryen must die out, not after all she has fought for. 

"They view each other as siblings, my queen." Tyrion's voice holds a certain edge, one she can comprehend but did not care for. "They will not be pleased."

"I do not care whether they will be pleased. It is past time Jaecerys comes home." She breathes heavily, curls her fingers, and braces her fists against the table. "And as for the other matter, it is all the more Targaryen of them. It was the obligation of the eldest son to marry the eldest daughter for generations before the Age of Aegon."

Silence. And then, he speaks. "As you wish."

Tyrion shuffles from the room in that way of his, leaving the queen utterly alone. The chamber is as her heart felt- empty. Finally, she lets the tears fill her purple eyes and spill onto her cheeks and the table. 

For so long she has dreamed of marrying her nephew, of having a family again, someone who is hers alone. His kindness and love in the Long Night filled her with such joy and the strength to persevere. They spent many a night together, wrapped in furs and piled besides dimly glowing embers, sharing stories of their childhoods and how they came to be leaders and rulers of different kingdoms. He offered her his kingdom for her support, even though she offered hers to him. She taught him about their family, all the stories she knows, and in exchange he taught her everything he knew about her realm and the lords and ladies she meant to lead.

Aegon had two sisters, as she had two brothers, but they were both now dead and gone. Dany's gut tightens and the tears come faster. Jacaerys is hers by right and birth, because they were both Targaryens, because they are of the same blood, because he is all she had left. Yet he is being stolen from her like Rhaegar was stolen from Elia Martell, by some Northern girl who could bear his children. Though she willingly gives him away, he is still someone she craves and needs, someone who belongs with her like clouds to the sky.

Her visions are gone. There will be no castle full of white-haired, purple-eyed little children named Rhaegar and Aegon and Rhaella and Visenya. Those children belong to Sansa Stark now; they will be hers to name for her Northern ancestors if she so wishes. They will have long faces and red hair, Stark or Tully with perhaps a little of the blood of Old Valyria; grey eyes or blue, it made no difference.

There would be little fire left in their blood.

A mounting anger burns within, great and terrible. Sansa Stark will share a bed with _**her**_ lord husband, bear _**her**_ children, mother **_her_** heirs.

She likes the girl enough when they met in the War for the Dawn, with her kind smiles and gentle way with managing the mounting tensions between Daenerys' blood riders, kos, and allies and the Northern lords. She managed the household supplies and castle defenses, distributions among the Northern refugees and the hordes of Dothraki that came to the Realm's aid.

But there was something steely about Sansa Stark, a quiet fierceness beneath her courtly coat. Rumor said she manipulated her unlawful husband, Harrold Hardyng, into slaying Petyr Baelish for his treasons against the Vale and the North. She maintains that sway still among the lords who serve her brother, and while Tyrion's arrival in Westeros ended her marriage with Lord Hardyng, she still holds friendships and sway with the Lords of the Vale. If anyone threatens her family or her people, that coldness comes bearing down on her newfound enemies like the headman's sword on Lord Stark's neck.

Daenerys needs Sansa Stark's womb, but she wants no wolves. _The Northern wench best know her place_, she thinks, wiping the tears from her cheeks, or _there she will know the true meaning of fire and blood._


	2. JON I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa receive a summons from the south.

**Jon**

Sansa Stark's graceful movements capture the attention of every eye in the room, his own most of all. She notices naught of her viewers and admirers as Lord Wylis Manderly guides her across the dance floor between the square of trestle tables lining the space. A singer’s voice lilts across Winterfell’s Great Hall as his fingers pluck delicately at the harp to create music that guides the many pairs of dancers. The brightness of Sansa's smile lit up the whole chamber when the singer appeared, and she claimed it was the best gift anyone had ever given her. Jon wrote South to ask his aunt to select a musician from King's Landing, specially for Sansa's nameday. 

He believes Dany has chosen well and found a musician happy with the North who can please all those within their castle. Arryk the Artful plays both the high harp and the lute and has a repetoire of songs from Westeros and beyond. While he did not come to them knowing many songs of the North, he spent many hours learning lyrics from Sansa and her ladies and even plays music with the Free Folk. He entrances even Arya with his list of songs from the Free Cities. Just the night before, Jon caught Arya tearing up as Sansa practiced a song with Arryk, one about all the lost people who found a home in Braavos.

At first, Jon was nervous that this gift would not please Sansa and would only make her bitter at the path her life has marched. Yet she has come to love her songs again, against all odds, and reigns as champion of the dance each night. She spins round with their brother Rickon and even manages to drag Arya out for the happier, faster jigs more common to the Riverlands. Each breathtaking swirl of her skirts brings a smile to his face, watching her happy among their people. 

She is as talented on the dance floor as she is in Rickon's court, organizing her partners in a similar way to how she organizes Winterfell. She has grown into a proper lady, part courtier and part diplomat, part entertainer to their guests and part mother to her younger siblings. She serves as a role model for her young retinue as well, many of whom spin around the floor gracefully with the boys under Jon's care now: Arra Umber, daughter of Mors, chases after Jonos Harclay; Alarra Blackmyre giggles as Alyn Blackwood tries to dip her low in the Dornish fashion; and Aregelle Cray and Leona Flint are teasing poor, blushing Rickard Cerwyn.

Jon tries not to linger his gaze on Sansa too long, but the bright trail of her hair in all the dark Northern raiment was difficult to draw his eyes away from, like the red comment shooting across the night's sky so many years ago.

The comet that hearkened the birth of dragons and the changing of their world forever.

As the music comes to its close, Sansa curtsies to Lord Wylis and steps away from their advisor. He chuckles deeply and turns to steal his daughter Lady Wynafryd from her suitor. Lord Wylis tries on every occasion to foist Wynafryd or her sister, Wylla, on Jon, thinking that they might someday be queen of Westeros or at least mother to the next ruler after Dany. Her last dance partner, Lord Orbert, would be a better choice than Jon by far, a younger son of House Stane with a calm, quiet disposition who would not mind giving up his name to be Lord Consort of White Harbor when Wynafryd ascends to her father's seat. Jon has no cares to give up his name or let a woman rule instead of him. But he also has no desire to leave Winterfell until Rickon comes of age and can rule in his own right and does not need the threat of Jon's wrath and Sansa's icy anger to protect him.

Sansa looks over her shoulder and caught Jon’s gaze with a much warmer smile than the one he currently dwells on, her beam bright and her expression excited. As Arryn strikes the next chords in a faster Riverlands jig, Sansa begins a poised dance around the other inhabitants of the hall, gradually making her way back to the high table and her place besides him.

It had not escaped Jon’s mind that Sansa always sits in her lady mother’s former place, and sat there even when he had been King in the North. Not even now that she rules as Lady Regent of Winterfell, and should rightfully take the Lord's seat, the seat Ned and Robb both took at one point, the seat the Rickon will one day hold in his own name. But Sansa always heads straight for her lady mother’s chair, even on occasions like tonight when a different man of the castle joined them in the fashion of Ned Stark's court. Septon Anguy has already retired for the night and abandoned the chair to Jon's left. At his right, Sansa settles into the Lady's seat, her skirts brushing against Jon's hands as she sits. He quickly pushes the dark blue wool off the sides of his armrest, letting it pool on the floor.

“That was lovely.” He remarks, reaching for a pitcher of mead. He pours some into Sansa’s cup. She always thirsts after taking a long turn on the dance floor.

"Thank you." She laughs gaily as she accepts the tankard, and takes a large quaff of the sweet honey-blackberry mead. The great whitedirewolf at Jon’s feet thumps his tail as she reaches down to pet between Ghost's ears. “And yes, it was. Lord Manderly is an excellent partner. Despite his girth, he's quite a nimble dancer.”

Sansa leans back in her seat, but her back still sits straight. Her shoulders slouch ever-so-slightly, just enough that only Jon and maybe Arya could notice, and a calm settles over her being. She glances over at Jon and lets the smile fade from her face into a look of softer, calmer joy. The candelabra on the tabletop tosses light against her face, illuminating the bright twinkles in her sea blue eyes. It's hard to keep from drowning in her when she looks at him like this, all calm and trust and contentedness, even though its been nearly three years since Jon and Sansa reunited outside the walls of this very castle. 

“Although truly, I am ready to retire.”

“You can’t leave me alone. Arya already bailed to train with the squires.” Jon mostly jests, for of course he won't begrudge Sansa a night's rest, but a feast requires a Stark presence until its end and their Northern guests still have several hours of merriment left in them as they celebrate the harvest feast of the short, six month Autumn.

Their little sister-cousin, Arya Stark, prefers to maintain the arms and practice with the young fighters-in-training. She once walked on the path towards a lady's life, but she resolved to be herself long ago and upon realizing that she was alive, her family resolved to love her as herself and nothing else. Unlike their childhood, Sansa no longer tries to encourage Arya to pursue so-called "womanly" tasks. Instead, she focuses on cultivating Arya into a great leader and an honorable warrior in the model of Brienne of Tarth, Sansa's sworn shield. Arya trains with Sam Tarly on the ways of a maester and learns diplomacy and politics from Sansa, while in turn helping her sister to better understand the needs of their smallfolk. Arya also serves as a castellan of sorts, checking over Sansa's books and records since the eldest Stark sister was never the best at sums and household management.

In contrast, Bran spends his time beneath the weirwood trees in the godswood observing the rest of the world or else riding in his special saddle to cross the moors with Meera Reed, his friend and close companion. He went out there early in the morning to connect in a moment of "direst need to the future of the Starks," and still rests outside. Rickon, barely ten, was sent to bed long before the dancing begun because he yawned his way through the venison course and fell asleep before the wolf pack subtlety was carried out. Thus leaving Sansa and Jon to fill the roles of Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

“I’m tired Jon. The lords will not miss my presence or yours.”

Jon turns his head to respond, but he notices the movement in the corner of his eyes. Little Sam, Gilly and Sam’s eldest, stands at the end of the high table with his wide eyes on the pair. He's only six and it surprises Jon that he is not abed. His brother Aemon, in truth the son of Mance Rayder and only a few months younger, waits behind him. Jon beckons the boys forward.

“What is it?” He asks, ruffling Aemon’s hair. Aemon was named for the great-uncle Jon never had the chance to recognize as his family; it gladdens him that part of this child shares the wise old man's name.

“Lord Jon, my father requires your presence immediately.” Little Sam’s words are a mumbled rush as they pour out. Something seems amiss in the usually well-spoken youth.

Jon rises, waving his hand for Arryk to continue his songs and not allow silence to permeate the hall. Aemon grabs Jon's hand. “Also the Lady Sansa. She needs to come too. ”

Sansa looks up from her cup, startled to be included. Normally when Lords write with urgent correspondence, it only requires Jon’s response as Warden in the North, not hers as Lady Regent of Winterfell. Issues that need to be confronted immediately usually involve defensive problems - disputes with the tribes of Free Folk settled around the North, the brief period when a band of outlaws haunted the wolfwood and carried off Lord Flint's eldest daughter, or marauding pirates from the Free Cities that attempted an attack on White Harbor, forgetting that the queen had a dragon. Every other moon, there's a new report of wights rising from the dead but as of yet that nightmare is behind them and the reports are just rumors.

Sansa's issues involve less to do with battles and armed conflict and more with the drudgery of daily life - dams close to bursting under the weight of newly melted ice and snow, low crop counts in certain villages that need stocks of grain to replenish their stores, the question of the Winter Orphans scattered across their kingdom and others, and the occasional request for help with arranging a marriage pact or fostering. Either way, they are both frequently busy and rarely get to enjoy a night without some kind of interruption. Tonight was meant to be one of those night but it does not seem to be.

“My lady.” Jon offers Sansa his forearm, trying to ignore the comfort brought on by the light pressure of her hand against his muscle and the warmth that spreads from that spot across his whole body.

Together, they follow the boys from the Great Hall, across the training yard, and to the Library Tower, which houses the Tarly family quarters. Ghost plods after, not content to remain in the Hall alone, but does not follow them into the building. As the autumn snow cascades down from above and alights in his fur, he heads towards the arch that will lead to the godswood where Ghost can hunt in peace or find Bran and settle at his feet.

Winds bit against Jon's cheeks as he walks up the winding staircase on the exterior of the tower. His hand settles on Sansa's lower back as she walks before him, offering her support until they reach the door at the top leading to the former maester's study that now serves as Sam's. Jon's friend claimed the room during the War of the Dawn, using it as his headquarters in investigating the North's resources and researching the Others and finding how they could be destroyed.

His old friend now sits besides the fire, the harsh glow tossing heavy light across the raven on the stand next to his chair, so that it nearly looks like a dark, black dragon. Sam twiddles with a roll of parchment in his hands, and meets Jon with an anxious stare as the Sansa and Jon sit across from him. There is only one chair, which Sansa motions for Jon to take, alighting herself on the plush armrest besides him and staring intently into the fire. Her brow furrows as she glances at the raven and then at the letter in Sam's hands.

“Jon, My Lady, we’ve had a missive from the capitol, you see…” Sam’s eyes land on Sansa, studying her with a level gaze. He has mastered his own nervousness much in the last few years, and normally exercises perfect controlled around the Starks. He hands out the letter. “I think it best if you just read it.”

Jon unravels the parchment and reads it quickly. 

_Dearest Jon -_

_I beseech you to come to King's Landing to assume your duties as a prince of the realm and as my heir. Winterfell can survive without you. I cannot. My womb will not bear a living child. Many Maesters have confirmed it. You will be the next King of Westeros, or your own heirs will be._

_Bring your cousin, Lady Sansa Stark. I have heard much of her beauty and intelligence and would like to make her a princess. Her presence will bring great happiness to our magnificent court. The necessary arrangements have been made with her former husband, Lord Tyrion, and the High Septon to allow her this marriage. Come South, as Jacaerys and Sansa Targaryen. The crown has need of you both in this, our most dire hour. And I have need of you both, as allies and advisors._

_Do not fail the realm when we have all worked so hard for this peace across the seven kingdoms. Please, you are our only hope._

_Your loving aunt,_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

He rereads the letter three times before he fully grasps it. Jon's heart stops in his chest as he realizes what his aunt requests of him. He looks at Sansa and the concern on her face, concern for _him_. Dany's words are soft but rigid. The letter demands that he comply, lest she mayhaps makes good on the veiled threats of ruining the peace and prosperity they've all worked so hard to build and maintain. Daenerys is not a mad queen - she is no Cersei the Cruel, who destroyed the Sept of Baelor and all her enemies within in a rain of unholy wildfire. But embargoes are possible, higher taxes and less help cajoling other lords to send their resources North without thought of compensation. What Daenerys is, is a _Targaryen_. A Targaryen queen with dragons and loyal followers, her destiny thwarted by the curse upon her womb, with little family and no friends. Of course she feels unstable in her place in her own court.

But he knows it is not just Dany. Others, too, may try to usurp her if she never has an heir, and unless Jon formally accepts a role as her heir, there are only distant cousins with little to no claim, descended from siblings of Aegon the Unlikely. Westeros would be thrown into another civil war, perhaps with more than five kings to claim the throne.

All his usual irritation at her formal use of his Targaryen name is ignored in the fervor of his rage, that he must give in to duty once again. “Dany can’t mean-”

“She does, Jon.” Sam’s eyes fall to the ground, avoiding Jon's intent stare.

“What does she want now? More taxes? More men for her standing army? The North is strapped as it is. Even tonight's harvest feast was too much on our paltry resources.” Sansa says, annoyance evident in her voice.

Queen Daenerys does not demand much from the North, recognizing that the majority of the War for the Dawn was fought in the winter country, but she did raise taxes at the beginning of the year, only eight months ago. The taxes are for a fund for war orphans, to be overseen by Arya. The project is one Dany and Arya have been working on through a string of letters and Arya's few visits south to King's Landing. A portion will be set aside to specifically train interested orphans as road builders so that the King's Road can be paved in bricks all the way from King's Landing to the Wall. But these projects are expensive and Sansa's thoughts on the strain are well known to her family and its quick implementation a point of contention between her and Arya.

That is not a concern right now. But more clear than her frustration is Sansa's concern for their people and what whatever this letter will be mean for them. "She sent a hundred wains of grain from the Reach only a week ago. She said it was a gift - has she changed her mind?"

Jon looks at her, taking in the twist of aggravation in her face. Even upset, she is beautiful and shines as bright as any star. His eyes find the ground, his lips forming a shamed frown at his thoughts in this moment. A devilish part of him, wicked and despicable, whispers that this queenly order is perfect because he can finally have the sister-cousin-friend that he has wanted for so long. How can he explain this to her without confessing how he truly feels? 

Instead, Jon thrusts the letter into Sansa's hands. “It’s best you read it.”

Her face falls as she reads the words, contorting in a pained expression. By the gods, he wants her, but not like this, not away from their home and family, away in someone else’s court and castle. Jon wants her to want him, not out of duty but out of love. Now, he'll never truly know how she has felt, if their longing glances across the Great Hall during petitions were imagined or true. The minute Bran revealed that Jon was a Targaryen by birth, not Eddard's son but Rhaegar's, his first thought was relief. Relief that he was not some depraved monster in love with his sister (although it could be the Targaryen part of him), and relief that he could love her if she let him.

Then Sansa looked at him and said, "You're still a Stark to me. You'll always be a Stark to me." And those feelings were all dread weighing down his stomach like an anchor. _She will never love me_, he thought. _Not as I would want to love her, if she would only let me._

Now, Jon's thoughts turn to the news at hand. _This raven changes everything_. Although he would not have chosen to have this way, a small part of him is glad that he will have her at all. And he hates himself for it.

"She can't have a family like she wants." There is something sad in Sansa's eyes, and Jon realizes he never even stopped to acknowledge the sad truth in Dany's letter, that she'll never have the family she talked so fondly of building. But just as quick as it appeared, the pity leaves Sansa's face. Her gaze hardens to steely ice. “So we must leave ours. She wants us to leave Arya and Bran and Rickon, to charge into a viper's pit and live with lords and ladies who will seek to grab our attention and pull us into their intrigues and politics.”

Jon startles, surprised that this is what she focuses on, rather than the implications of everything else that will be expected of them, as husband and wife. Sansa glances at the fire then back to him, the anger gone and tears forming in her eyes.

“Jon.”

As she says his name, his heart breaks just a little. He glances to the side, but the Tarly boys and their father have disappeared. They are alone in the study. Jon does the only thing he knows how to in this moment.

He wraps an awkward arm around her waist and pulls her into his lap, settling her against his chest. Jon holds Sansa tighter than he ever has, tucks her in against his chest, his arms and hands locking into the small of her back, his head burrowing against her neck. Sansa’s arms wrap just as tight behind his neck, and she breaks.

Her body shakes, wracked with the force of her sobs. “I can’t go back there, Jon. I can't leave our family. I _can’t_.”

He rocks her for all he is worth, nuzzling against her neck in a gesture he hopes is soothing. He rubs a circle against her back like Old Nan would when they were scared or sick or sad as children. Sansa spoke about it, sometimes, the pain and torment that afflicted her in the capitol. Joffrey Baratheon’s abuse, Margaery Tyrell’s betrayal, her marriage to Tyrion Lannister, and everything after, in the Vale: Her Aunt Lysa's anger and murder, Petyr Baelish's manipulation, Ser Shadrich's kidnapping attempt, even the indifferent way her once-husband, Harrold Hardyng, took her maidenhead.

“We can live in Dragonstone, perhaps. It is traditionally the crown prince’s seat.” He tries to reassure her, but his words make no difference.

“Until we are called back to the kingdom by the wiles of a queen. I thought I was free, but all rulers are the same, caring for no one while they play their game of thrones.” Sansa crumbles then, leaning against his chest and burying her face in the warmth of his cape’s furred collar. He holds her while she cries, the only sound for minutes until she stops heaving and whispers into his side.

“We should be dead.”

“No, Sansa. Don’t ever say that.” He pulls back and looks deep into her eyes. He wants her, but not like this. Never like this. Jon wanted her to love him willingly, to trust him, care for him, but on her own terms, not the queen’s or Rickon's or anyone else who could command them. He wanted her to choose him.

He caresses her face in his hands and brushed the tears from her cheeks. Still more well within her glimmering blue eyes, like drops of seawater trying to escape the ocean.

They have both suffered abuse and faced loss, lead men and lost them, fought wars and fought the dead, seen into the iciest eyes and stopped believing in the songs. Yet somehow, they have recovered. In her gaze, he found the songs again. Beneath her gentle touch, he found something else to believe in. Finally he can live again.

Daenerys will tear that all away to secure her throne. To protect the realm. _What is one pair's happiness, compared to the lives and stability of millions_?

He flew at Dany's side as a dragon rider, felt the fire that burnt in his veins, but Jon wants none of that to continue. He likes the calm coolness of ice better than the passionate heat of flame, but once more will he delve into the hearth to protect the ones he loves. She is family, yes, but not the family that raised him and loved him when he was no one. Dany showed him care and listened to him as her advisor and a representative of the North while they all still thought he was a bastard of Ned Stark, but with the true reveal of his parentage she accepted him fully into her arms and only then allowed a friendship to fully bloom between them. She was the only one to know anything of how his family viewed itself, who his father's family was. They keep up correspondence and she visited only a year ago, and he has hopes to visit Dany soon, but his first duty is to his sibling-cousins.

“Arya and Bran and Rickon will be safe. We may not always be together, but we will know they are cared for. We’ll have that.” His voice softens as Sansa leans into his touch and reaches up to hold his warm hand against her face. “We’ll have each other. And we'll have Dany.”

Sansa recoils at these words, her resolve fading from her.

“She wants you.” Sansa whispers, and grips his fingers forcefully. “I saw the way she looked at you, in the battle and after it. She would have called just you south, if she could have. But she needs an heir and my mother's Tully womb proved plenty fruitful.” Her bitter laugh is full of mirth. "Mayhaps she hopes to have you to herself once the realm's future is secured in our children."

Even in this emotional moment, Sansa's knowledge of how people play the game astounds Jon. The court of the North is neither as false nor subtle as those in the south, but even so, the lords and ladies play their games to gain wealth, status, and power. Their father - _her _father - did not play, and that in part is why the castle was emptier than it is now. Sansa called for fosterlings from Northern houses, with sons and daughters to learn the ways of warriors and ladies. 

Lyanna Mormont, who once wrote so fiercely to King Stannis, serves as companion to Arya. Eddara Tallhart, a young maid of fourteen or fifteen, and Lady of Torrhen's Square besides, serves in Sansa's retinue to learn the ways of ruling. Erena Glover, a child of nine, joins them as well although she would rather follow after Sam and ask him questions about the sciences.

“I won’t dishonor you, I swear it before the old gods and the new.” Jon tucks a loose strand behind her ear, and stroked her hair, soft against his fingertips. “And if you don’t want me, I won’t have you. Not even if she commands it by my death.”

“Jon-“ Sansa’s voice is weak. “We’re about to enter their world, and they’re merciless.”

“I’ll be there, Sansa. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Never again.”

Sometimes Jon think the only reason he rose again was so he could gaze into Sansa’s eyes, so bright and blue when she stared up at him like she does then. To be there when she arrived at in the North to reunite their family and join her in placing Rickon on their father's seat and protect his rights to rule the north as Lord of Winterfell. To hold Sansa when she cried and support her as she needs it, in any way he can. These sinful thoughts filled his head, even before Bran discovered his true parentage. Even now, when Arya still calls him ‘brother,’ all he dreams of is the taste of Sansa’s lips against his own. 

“After everything we’ve been through…” she said, her voice soft and quiet as her needle through her cloth. “My lord husband.” She spoke as if testing the words on her mouth. She intertwines their hands and finally brings it way from her face, but they stay joined. “We’ll still be together.”

“Together.” He repeats. It is an assurance, a prayer.

Sansa buries her head against the crook of his neck. Her face is soft and comforting there. No more tears escape her eyes, although sadness is still evident in her quiet breathing. He knows that even the seven hells together could not bring the pain to Sansa that their relocation to King’s Landing will. Nothing can ever trump the memories and nightmares that invade every inch of the Red Keep. He must give her all the love he can, to hold her stable in the snake pit they are about to enter.

He nuzzles his chin against her shining hair, and whispers so only she can hear, “Always. I promise.”


	3. DANY I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany balances the politics of the South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not in the original posting of Ice Before Winter, but I hope ya'll still enjoy!

Dany leans into Drogon’s back and urges him higher, calling out in High Valyrian, “_Sōvegon_!”

His dark black wings beat heavily against the thin pressure of the sky and he angles up towards the clouds above them.She tightens her grip on the saddle straps and digs her heels into Drogon’s side. The wind roars in Dany’s face and brings tears to her eyes with how intensely cold it blows and she smiles. _I have looked into the heart of winter and survived. What is the air to fire but something to stoke the flame?_

Below, King’s Landing looks small as ants crawling along a log. She cannot tell one person from the next in the crowd that has gathered to watch the queen fly. But this is a different feeling then she had when standing in her pyramid high above Meereen. There, she felt like a god, worshiped and lonely and far above all the problems of the people she was meant to protect. The people of King’s Landing do not let Dany forget that she is Daenerys, their queen, and come to her with their complaints and concerns at every hearing she holds.

Drogon flaps his wings harder, pushing and pushing to reach the fluff of white that hangs above them just close enough to touch. Dany predicts his movements beneath her, rolling her hips and maintaining her balance as he begins to peak through the moisture and condensation in the sky. She laughs as the moistness fills her face and wets her clothing, the sound carrying the song of her joy into the winds.

Following the feel of his body, Dany leans back and opens her arms as Drogon crests and swirls in a wide loop, only kept from falling her death by the tight straps of her dragon saddle. His wings match the spread of her arms and they descend towards the earth in a rush of wind and cloud and breeze and thrill. Drogon breaths out wisps of flame that heats the air as they plummet into it, fresh enough to warm Dany as she follows the trail of his lead.

They land in the dragonpit all too soon for Dany’s liking. If she could, she would mount Drogon and fly to the ends of the world and trace the journey of Elissa Farman or Corlys Velaryon. But Daenerys is a queen with people who need her guidance and a kingdom who needs her rule.

She dismounts from Drogon’s back and offers him a treat of three freshly slaughtered lambs, which he is quick to charr before eating. Daenerys is met by the High Septon and his guard waiting patiently at the gate with her entourage.

“Holy Father,” she bows her head, “I am most honored to be in your presence. What brings you to the dragonpit today?”

“To see your radiance, of course.” The old man smiles like a fool, sure his flattery will work, as do his leering Golden Warriors. Even covered head-to-toe in riding leathers, Dany can feel the knights’ eyes raking up her body. The guard was Daenerys’ offered compromise when she disbanded the Faith Militant. Instead of taking away all power of the Faith’s devoted warriors, they were given the chance to join a faith-dedicated battalion under the city guard. That way, she could exercise control before they could turn against her or the members of the court like the Warrior’s Sons did with Cersei the Cruel and Lady Margaery, but the Faith still had protection during any riots or invasions that could come in the future.

“Why don’t you join me on my ride to the castle then, Septon?” Daenerys indicates the small dragonpit stables, where a young hand is bringing out her aging silver. “I would appreciate the chance to hear directly from you about the progress of Holy Maegelle.”

“It would be my pleasure, your grace.”

The High Septon follows her on one of her lady’s horses, as Lady Bracken goes to join Missandei and Lady Ermesande Hayford in their litter. Her Unsullied guards and other knights gather round their party and follow them along the tight corridor of King’s Landing, ever watchful for assassins.

As Dany waves to the gathered people shouting out her name, he prattles on about the final touches being added to the great sept, a replacement for the Sept of Baelor that was destroyed by the Usurper’s wife. It will be even greater than before, with various Targaryens as models for the faces of the Seven. The Warrior, Aegon the Conquerer who united Westeros; the Father, Jaehaerys I the Old King who had the longest reign of peace; the Smith, Daeron the Good who forged Dorne into the rest of the realm with his marriage to a Martell of Sunspear; the Maiden, young Jaehaera who died too soon; the Crone, Good Queen Alysanne who lived the longest of any queenly ancestor; and the Mother, Daenerys herself. In the center of the courtyard would be a statute dedicated to any Targaryen who joined the Faith (and stayed, for Saera certainly did not count).

As they near the shadow of the Red Keep, Dany finally adds more to the conversation than pleasant courtesies. “Do you think the Sept will be ready in time for my nephew’s wedding, Holiness?”

He finally stops his report. When he speaks, his voice is shakier. “Unfortunately, your grace, I am not sure the marriage can go forward. There is concern for the standard it will perpetrate.”

“Holiness, my nephew his marrying his cousin. What is so wrong with that?” Daenerys tries to maintain her neutral facade but still she purses her lips. She has not expected resistance from the Faith of this. Its a correction to the years of Targaryen Exceptionalism that was Faith Doctrine for many years - and still technically is.

“It is not the incest that is the problem. While they were raised as siblings, all know that Prince Jacaerys is not one to Lady Sansa.” The High Septon pauses. “However, her first marriage was before the Faith, witnessed by many. We are concerned that the first marriage is set aside so easily, that others will seek to do the same.”

“The marriage was unconsummated.”

“How are we too prove that, though? Her farse of a marriage to Lord Arryn was consummated.” The High Septon clicks his tongue in a manner most undignified. “The doctrine is unclear.”

They have reached the Red Keep and Dany knows she must ponder her next approach to soothe things over with the Faith. “I pray the Seven will give you guidance, Holiness. Perhaps I can come join your prayers about the question tomorrow, and see what support the crown can provide to your ministry.”

“Of course, my queen.”

The High Septon passes his reigns to one of the Unsullied and walks to greet the crowds with his men while Dany and her ladies proceed through the castle gates. They are greeted by her ladies’ caretakers, pages for the litter and horses, and Grandmaester Marwyn.

The maester scurries to her side as she dismount from her horse and bows low. He’s followed by three younger assistants, lesser maesters and an acolyte doing a rotation in castle management under the grandmaester. As Dany helps him rise, he smiles up at her with his bright red smile. They begin the ascent up the serpentine stairs, Dany slowing down so the old man can keep up. “What have I missed, Marwyn?”

“A raven came from Lady Stark, your grace.”

“So soon?” Dany stops again so the grandmaester can catch his breath and she can organize her thoughts. They only sent the raven to Winterfell with word of the recommended nuptials between Jacaerys and Sansa a little more than week ago. It surprises her that the response from Sansa came so quickly. She wonders what their reaction will be, what the letter will say. Sansa is mindful of her duty, and Jacaerys is mindful of the realm he worked so hard to save. But even so, this marriage may be difficult for them both, and she does not expect them to go about producing heirs for some time before they acclimate to sharing a life together.

“Excuse me. The message is from Lady Arya. She writes of progress updates on the school for road builders, with recommendations for where the orphanhouse could be constructed.” He hands the queen the letter. “She recommends somewhere in the center of the North, perhaps Torhenn’s Square.”

“Not their winter town?”

“It is accounted for, but Torhenn’s Square would be ideal because it is a more developed town. The winter town only fills when winter comes. With spring, the smallfolk return to the crofters towns and other castle villages.” Marwyn explains.

Dany skims the letter from Arya, thinks for a moment, and once they reach the top of the stairs she hands the piece of parchment back. “Send her my regards and approval. I’ll trust her on this. What else?”

“A reply arrived from the Citadel, with a request that _another_ young maester be sent to King's Landing. Apparently he wants to study the higher learnings with me." Marwyn sounds annoyed, a feeling Dany does not blame him for. His appointment as Grandmaester was meant to be a given, an escape from the 'grey sheep' of the Citadel he had dealt with for so long. But the other archmaesters seem set on swarming him with young maesters and acolytes to instruct, which kept him from his research on magic and the dragons.

She lowers her voice so the trailing sheep cannot hear. "Shall I give my royal decline?"

Marwyn answers similarly in a whisper. "No, I think not. Their support for you still wavers, and the people of Oldtown still fear my research since they think it is similar to the darkness that the Crow's Eye rose from the deep. I will not give them any reason to foster further dissent."

"Very good." Dany nods. "And what do they say to the next generation of Targaryens?"

"The maesters council sees no reason not to approve the match between the prince and Lady Stark.”

Daenerys sighs in relief. “At least that’s one party that will support this declaration.”

“What do you mean, your grace?”

She purses her lips. “The High Septon does not yet approve the annulment from Lord Tyrion. He is unsure that it would be blessed by the Seven-that-are-One.”

“Rodrik!” Marwyn calls back to his acolyte. “Go find a page and send them to the Holy Maegelle. Arrange a meeting with his Holiness so that he and I may speak doctrine.” He turns back to the queen. “I will speak with him about these concerns. Surely we can arrange some solution.”

Daenerys nods her thanks. “You have the authority to suggest most anything. I trust your judgment, and that you understand how much we need this marriage to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).


	4. JON II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa leave Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I s2g if anyone is dramatic when I've moved around the tags and put in multiple warnings . . .

The Stark siblings do not take kindly to the betrothal of their brother to their sister.

Arya throws her plate across Sansa’s solar where they broke their fast together, scattering scrambled eggs and shattered porcelain fragments against the far wall. She storms out in a brilliant flurry of curses that Sansa would normally have reprimanded her for. But this morning Sansa has no energy for chiding. She only stares at her clasped hands in her lap.

Bran nods in that placid way of his, as if he already knew. He refuses to tell them what the future holds ever. Jon wouldn’t be surprised if he had seen their summons South in his trees.

Rickon does not understand Jon and Sansa they must leave. He has grown into a spirited boy, wilder than Arya ever was. As Arya leaves and Bran sits still, Rickon tilts his head and asks, his voice cracking, “Why?”

“Because Jon is Daenerys’s only living relative. He’s her heir.” Sansa tries to explain. Jon watches from where he leans against the wall besides the hearth, sullen in his silence with arms crossed over his chest.

She tries to take Rickon’s hand but he shakes her off. “No, he can’t be, the queen’s a Targaryen and he’s not!”

“Sweet one, yes he is.” Sansa looks ready to brush Rickon’s unkempt auburn curls back from his face, a nervous tic she’s developed over the years, but she resists. “"You know how Minisa and Brynden are our cousins, even though they're not Starks?"

Rickon nods, but he’s frowning. If the situation wasn’t so abysmal, Jon himself would laugh. “It’s like that. Jon’s a Targaryen, but he’s still our cousin.”

“No it’s not!” Rickon leaps from his chair and runs over to Jon. He tugs at Jon’s arm and pulls him away from the wall. “You’re _not_ a Targaryen. You’re a Stark, my brother!”

Jon bends down in front of him. “I’m really your cousin by blood. But I’ll always be your brother in your heart.” He sets a hand on Rickon’s chest. The boy looks ready to cry, chin wobbling and eyes wide. “You’ll have to be extra strong now, and take care of Bran and Arya since I’ll be gone. Can you do that?”

Steadily, Rickon nods. “I’ll try.”

Jon musses Rickon’s hair, trying to relieve the tension. “I’m sure you’ll do well in watching over the North.”

Fortunately, Rickon trusts Lord Manderly and would listen to his new Lord Regent's advise. He will not be the kind of lord Joffrey was, demanding and impetuous.

Bran forsaked his role as Lord of Winterfell, claiming he had a destiny that did not align with ruling a keep and watching over his people. When Rickon comes of age, he will take up Ned Stark's mantle. Upon their arrival in King's Landing, Jon will petition his aunt to make Lord Manderly the Warden in the North until such time as Rickon reaches his majority, since that is no longer a responsibility he can fulfill in her name.

Somewhat less upset, Rickon goes quietly to the breakfast table and begins buttering his toast in silence. Jon and Sansa exchange a look over his head, as if to agree the hard part is over.

The days that follow bring hectic commotion to Winterfell as the guard prepares for their journey and their retinue packs. The South is not a happy place for the blood of the North, but still a few of Sansa’s ladies have chosen to accompany her.

Jeyne Poole bravely volunteers first, even though her last excursion to King's Landing brought her so much suffering. Wylla Manderly follows her example with her fathers blessing, and **Allara Blackmyre excitedly announces her plans to find the best wrestler in all of Westeros to be her husband.** And of course Lady Brienne of Tarth, Sansa's sworn shield, will join. Brienne would gladly follow Sansa to the Summer Islands if her lady asks, glad to do her duty and fulfill her vows to Lady Catelyn.

Sansa sews at all times, with her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. In council meetings, at meals, in her solar, as she instructs Wylla Manderly on the finer points of running Winterfell- there is always an embroidery hoop in her hands.

They had not spoken alone since they received the letter, both too busy preparing to leave their home. Yet Jon notices that articles of his clothing that disappear from his packed trunk and reappear on his bed, with new embellishments of wolves and snowflakes and winter roses. Sansa was ready to rebel in a way only she could, and their clothing screamed her message: they might be dragons in the South, but their hearts still belonged to the North and the snow and the Starks.

He is startled from his ledgers late the night before their departure by a knock on his door. When he opens the door, Jon is surprised to find Sansa standing before him.

She wears a light grey dress, embroidered with a direwolf springing across her chest. Her shining red hair is pinned back in a simple Northern braid, with silver two combs as trimming.

“I have a strange request.” Sansa says, her eyes fixed upon his. “Would you marry me tonight, in the godswood?I - I’d like to have it here, with our family, before we become players once again.”

His heartbeat speeds rapidly in his chest. “Of course.”

She hands him a grey cloak, decorated with the inverted sigil of her house. He never chose to use his birth father's colors, only ever following what he’s known for a lifetime. Across Sansa’s shoulders hangs a simple white cloak with the outline of a direwolf embroidered in grey. Jon notes the embroidery was done hastily, a few stitches skipped and not quite straight. But even then, the design is exquisite. Sansa's pieces normally used more detail than this, but she’s put together a match for them both in a short few weeks.

Sansa escorts him to the godswood, his heart hammering in his chest. _This is what I’ve wanted, but not like this. _A wife awaits him beneath the hearttree, he realizes. This was not a future Jon ever thought to see. But now he has a bride for himself, a future with children and joy he didn’t think he would know.

As if caught in some strange, foggy dream, he leaves Sansaat the godswood's edge and joins Arya and Bran beneath the tree’s limbs.

Only their family stands there, but those are the only people he needs. Rickon appears at Sansa’s side, a nervous look on his face as he walks her towards where Jon waits. No decorations hang around the godswood for this ceremony, only the red of the weirwood leaves and the rustling of the wind. Ghost stands besides Jon’s feet, quiet as his namesake. The words are said, his voice shaking as he calls himself Jon of House Targaryen. “I claim her. Who gives her?”

Rickon stumbles through the words, finishing traditionally, “Lady Sansa will you take this man?”

A unexpected thrill rushes through Jon as Sansa looks at him and smiles. He swears a blush spreads across her cheeks. “I take this man.”

The bride is given over and then he is fumbling with the knot of her cloak and setting his own over her shoulders. With that, Sansa is his and Jon is hers, bride and groom, wife and husband.

Sansa's cheeks redden for true as a summer snow crowns her brow. She looks every inch the princess the world will make her. Jon stares into her shining bright blue eyes, and places a chaste kiss upon her lips. He would nearly swear she leans into his touch, but surely Jon imagines it. It took severe restraint to not attempt anything further with his _wife_, but he would never go anywhere that she would not invite him.

He escorts her back to her chambers once their-_her_ siblings disperse. She smiles prettily as she presses a hand against the door and looks over her shoulder at him. “Would you- would you like to come in?”

“We have an early start tomorrow.”

“Oh. Yes, we do.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” He says after an awkward silence.

“For what?”

“For thinking of the godswood. It felt truer than any sept wedding good. To seal our fate before our own family and our own gods. In the South, the sept is for them.” He embraces Sansa, holding her close for an extra moment. _My wife_. He hopes she understands his deep appreciation of the woman she has become is. His lips brush a kiss against her forehead, but then he pulls back.

She opens her door fully, and steps back as Ghost pushed his way into her chambers. Sansa giggles nervously.

“He'll protect you.” Jon suggests, and runs a hand over his hair. Sansa laughs again, more naturally this time.

Her lips part as if she is about to speak. She bit her lip. “Good night, my lord husband.”

“Good night, my lady wife.” The door swings shut behind her, but Jon continues to stare after Sansa. Her name is beautiful, just as the woman herself. A few moments later and Jon leaves, back to his own quarters for the remainder of the night.

~~~

There are tears and embraces aplenty the next morn before they leave Winterfell. Sam and Gilly, clutching young Faya to her breast, come to say goodbye, and all the household. The Stark siblings do not say the truth of their hearts, although they fell the pain of their separation, but none know when they will next see the leaving couple. Rickon is the most distraught, holding on tightly to Sansa's arm.

"Don't go, please." He begs, his large blue eyes focused entirely on her. “Don't leave me again.”

Jon’s heart goes out to Rickon, who has already lost so much and now has to lose so much more. It goes out to all of them, thrust apart as they never wanted to be, all because of the blood in Jon's veins that he would rather not have.

Sansa kneels before the little lord, her face serious as she cups his own in her hands. "Promise you'll be good for Lord Manderly, and I'll write to you every week, I swear it."

“No, you have to stay. I’m the lord, I command it!” Rickon stomps his foot and Sansa pulls him into his arms.

“My little lord, let this be a lesson in the duty you owe your people and your family. Everything we do is for them.” Sansa presses a kiss to her brother’s brow. “What are our mother’s words?”

Rickon answers through muffled sobs. “Family, duty, honor.”

“Exactly, my little wolf.” She squeezes his hand. “Do you understand? Will you listen to Lord Manderly?”

“Yes.”

As Sansa rises, Rickon lunges for another hug. Arya surprises them all by throwing her arms round Sansa next and pressing her face into her sister's neck. “You better write to me, too.”

Their relationship has never truly reached the closeness Jon knows Sansa wishes for, but they are sisters and friends all the same. Sansa wraps up Arya in her embrace. “I’ll miss you, sweet one. Don't let the squires best you, but mind that you keep the dirt from your hair when you have to make an appearance at formal events.”

Arya nods, tears peeking in the corner of her eyes. She wipes them out with the back of her hand before crushing Jon tightly into her body. “Don't you dare let anyone hurt her, Snow. Prince or not, I'll hurt you twice as bad myself.”

“I won't, little sister.” He ruffles her short hair one last time before they separated.

Bran nods at both of them, squeezes their hands, and whisperes his partings. “Fair fortune, family. Gods be good to you.”

Shaggy, Summer, and Nymeria nuzzle against Ghost, letting their whines ring out. Jon did not want to part the litter, but Ghost would not go with anyone else but him. With a start, he realizes he will soon see his dragon once again. The fond bonds between them are not as strong as the bonds Viserion share with his siblings and so the dragon stays with Daenerys in King's Landing's dragonpit.

Jon helps Sansa mount her horse, hands tight on her waist until she settles in the saddle. Sansa graces him with a small smile of thanks before he mounts his own.

They ride through the gate like a downtrodden and defeated army, Ghost plodding along after them. Sansa leads the way, the first Stark to return to Winterfell now becoming the first to leave it again. He trots ahead to ride aside her. Jon reachs out and grasps Sansa's hand tightly, ready to face a future with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, then come hangout on [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) to talk about Jonsa, Jonerys, Daensa, OT3, ASOIAF, and GOT. I also take prompts in my [ask box](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com/ask/).

**Author's Note:**

> You can hit me up at [tumblr](https://www.starksinthenorth.tumblr.com) for more ASOIAF speculation and GOT fun.


End file.
